The Trapeze Swinger
by dontdreamoffallingconsciously
Summary: RE-EDIT IN PROGRESS. With innocence and childhood a distant memory, Hermione leads a life of duty and obligation. She unable to face her present, her true emotions buried beneath after years of war. That is, until she uncovers her past.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, simply borrow the ideas.**

**A/N: A plot bunny yearning to be more. **

* * *

1

_Come what may; I won't fade away. But I know I might change._

_- Kate Havnevik, _Grace

* * *

It was her new alarm clock. They were always precisely on time, standing outside her window at six a.m. sharp, each crying out the manta, "_Long live Harry Potter!", _until it became a thunderous roar. She could always ignore the first hundred or so.

Every morning she'd find her way to the kitchen, her hair pulled back into a severe, unforgiving bun at the nape of her neck, with her work robes in shades of grey and stiffly ironed. She would find Harry already sitting there, a faraway look on his face and a hot cup of coffee in his hands.

"Morning, Hermione," he'd say as she helped herself to a cuppa.

"Morning, Harry," would be the generic reply as she took her seat. They sat together in silence until they could no longer postpone the inevitable.

Every morning they'd leave the house at a quarter to eight. Before the door could even be closed behind them, they'd find themselves swarmed and separated in the endless crowd. Hermione would avoid the prying eyes and lecherous hands, fighting her silent fight through the ocean of people.

She'd always be the first out. If it took him longer than fifteen minutes, she'd go on without him. The Ministry had to open, and she was the only one, save for Harry, that could do it.

There would always seem to be an innumerable amount of people standing and waiting outside the gates. Every morning she couldn't help but approach with dread, knowing she have to spend another ten minutes, at least, outside and under the bounds of the suffocating gratitude of the Wizarding Community.

She then meticulously checked each and every Ministry employee via potions, spells, and pointed questioning for positive identification – it was the new dictum, forced upon Harry by the people; _No mistakes_. It was not a suggestion, but a threat. All she could do once she got inside the safe, solid four walls of her office was collapse.

In the beginning, she cried. Her body would wrack with powerful, uncontrollable shudders, as she gasped and clutched her blotchy face. Her entire person would fill up with an overwhelming feeling of betrayal, and she'd sob until it was subdued.

Now, she just stared. There was a photo on her desk of her, Harry and Ron in fourth year, around the fire in the Gryffindor common room. She'd watch their miniature figures moving around until she became encased in the image, her fingers almost tingling with the heat of the fire. There was a rare moment in the picture where Ron cast a small glance at her out of the corner of his eye, his ears brightening to a shade of light puce.

Her mounds of paperwork would eventually call to her; broken only at midday when Harry would appear at her doorway, a procession of subordinates trailing along behind. Bless his heart; he'd always try to be polite as he shut the door in their eager faces.

"Tough day," he'd exhale, the lukewarm sunlight pouring through the window reminding them it was barely even noon.

She'd look at him with barely registered eyes, and steeled herself as he went on to explain the new legislation the members of the revised Wizengamont had pitched, and how they had managed to back him into a corner on this one, as well.

"Not that I know a good legislation from a bad one," he'd say quietly. "I'm not cut out for this."

Sitting down in a chair opposite Hermione, he'd run a hand through his messy black hair, a familiar action with newfound motive. She'd take his free hand and they would sit together, tense and exhausted, until that inevitable knock at the door would force them both to their feet again.

On this particular day, it had been the exalted Adjudicator of Wizarding Affairs, Henry Duke. The large, domineering man required Harry for a signature or two, which her friend did with obvious resignation, his eyes in a tight squint as he attempted to decipher the fine print. Hermione stood perched at his shoulder, much to the disdain of Duke. She could hardly comprehend the thought process of the public, unanimously appointing this emotionless thug of a man to overlook all Ministry Affairs. But that was how everything was done these days, through unopposed election, unless you dared face a revolt.

"It's all right," she whispered softly into Harry's ear, and he nodded slowly, signing his name in the spaces provided.

Duke turned to her next, requesting her assistance with certain logistics of the Polyjuice Potion. He barely looked at her as he spoke, and turned to face Harry as soon as the last word had left his mouth.

"Nothing major, I assure you, Minister," he said to Harry, whose glazed look told them both he couldn't care less.

Still, Harry managed a bleak nod, and wordlessly exited the office, giving Hermione only the briefest of kind glances before shutting the door behind him with an eerie silence.

"Miss Granger, I just want to be absolutely positive on the facts," he explained, clasping together his grubby sausage fingers. She did not meet the cold grey eyes sweeping her face. "Please, take a seat."

Hermione mused on the absurdity on asking someone to take a seat in their own office, but kept quiet, offering instead a polite smile as she sat.

Duke's eyes flashed around the small office. Anyone else would have been pacing, but Duke stood completely still, the urge to move apparently absent. Even Hermione felt the powerful urge to twitch in the silence.

"Before operation goes ahead, I just want to be sure of the causes and effects," he explained slowly, his eyes now steady on her. The urge to twitch got stronger. Hermione pursed her lips, looking up and holding his gaze.

"Absolutely. I put together a brief overview last night." Hermione flicked her wand and a large, neatly packed brown folder appeared, a far cry from anything resembling brief. "It has any possible information you could require."

The question burned her throat, but she forced it down: _Why on Earth was Duke asking about Polyjuice? _

"This is greatly appreciated," he responded, taking the folder brusquely from her outstretched hand. Duke studied her, with unwavering repentance for a long moment. "Would you care to join me in my office for a short moment?" Before Hermione had a chance to respond the large, imposing man snapped his fingers, and Hermione felt a nauseating pull at her navel, before landing ungracefully on the floor of a completely different room, the walls still spinning around her.

_Great sod_, she thought with malice, trying to stand. She could hardly hide her contempt at this new practice of instant transportation within the Ministry; her own realm of thought pointed out that if Inner Ministry employees could access these teleports, presumedly an infiltration could be possible at the hands of an appropriately skilled wizard. But of course, who would listen to _her_?

Duke's office was much smaller than Hermione's, and most unjustly so. The space was crammed with boxes of paperwork and otherwise, and there was barely room for a desk and two chairs, which she took the liberty of placing herself in, not willing to hear his grating voice request it of her again.

He did not sit. His strong, protruding jaw seemed even more so as he towered over her, his eyes just meeting the top of her face. His features, in all, told quite a story – they weren't unkind, but just as the man, they foretold of a person who wasn't to be bothered. Despite his age, he had few signs of it, despite a growing bald patch amidst tight grey curls – his expressions were mainly bland and expressionless, quite like the monotone range of his voice. But of course, the Wizarding Community didn't vote for him for his good looks and pretty voice, they voted for him because of his promises. They voted for him because he swore for protection and order; admittedly, the two things Duke knew how to do best.

"Miss Granger." His low voice snapped her out of her reverie. The formal address brought a ghost of a smile to her face. She hadn't heard herself referred to like that much since her Hogwarts days. His dark eyes glinted in the dim office light. He cast a swift glance at the folder of information, still in his hands. "First, I must thank you for this. Again, the Wizarding Community owes you a debt." Hermione internally scoffed at the comment – perhaps a _little _overdramatic?

"I hope you have been in well spirits and good health – celebrating your newfound peace to the highest degree," he continued in an even duller tone. Hermione doubted it was pertinent she respond, so she offered a diminutive smile instead. "However, I have a very serious matter to discuss with you today. That is –" He paused momentarily, lacing his fingers over his chest. "There are questions being raised in concern to your dedication to your government."

"_What_?" Hermione snapped into acute focus. "That's... that's absolutely ridiculous."

"I'm sure it is, Miss Granger. However, a simple guarantee from myself and others alike will hardly stop people from talking. It is my duty to investigate the issue at hand to the lengthiest and deepest extent."

"Mr. Duke, I can _assure_ you there is no need for investigation. As I said before, any such accusations are entirely ridiculous and unfounded. As you may fondly remember, Mr. Duke, I helped _form_ this establishment." Her eyes pierced into his and for a moment, she thought she saw distress.

It took a moment for her companion to respond. "As I am well aware. But perhaps _you_ forget, Miss Granger, that this establishment was not formed from a single mind – or a handful of minds, at that. The wizarding public have created this –" He stood back and gestured grandly with one arm. "– and they lead it to this very second. _That -_" the word was enunciated with far too much meticulousness than Hermione could appreciate. "- is where concerns have been raised."

A thousand different angry retorts raced through Hermione's mind. The man did not once let her out of his steely gaze. Hermione inhaled, full of emotion and spirit, but with her exhale, found herself empty handed and appallingly – defeated.

She sighed deeply, letting her eyes fall to the floor, and dutifully examine floor patterns. _Dammit, Hermione, where did your spirit go?_ "I can only hope then, that the questions can be put to rest by the declaration of my sincerest dedication." The words came out in a whisper, but she could feel the environment before her drastically changed. Duke seemed to exude pleasure.

Hermione felt tender and worn in the silence. She felt so oddly inferior to this man who she was...superior. In technical rankings, of course. He was clearly at least thirty years her senior. He was also a man who had spent years working as a lowly employee of the Ministry, the terms _ambition _and _power_ preposterous youthful notions to him. In lieu of magical protection - and effectively, destruction - he instead relied on a jaw-dropping knowledge of legal systems and all their compliances to hold his place of respect among his peers. A wizard by blood, he was truly a Muggle at heart; the man only used magic for efficiency.

Hermione had no idea how to deal with such a man. So instead, she resigned herself to simple obedience. A sickening thought, no matter how much she tried to mollify it.

Not able to stand the prickling silence any long, Hermione rose. "Everything you need is in there," she said with a nod to the folder, rising swiftly from her chair. "Excuse me."

The door was shut behind her before the man had a chance to respond. Directionless, she wandered through the corridors, her heart pounding nauseatingly in her throat. Her fingertips grazed the white washed walls as she walked on, the cool stone sending a chill up her arm. Her head buzzed with a million different thoughts, so loud she was certain every passerby could hear. A sickening sensation of panic filled her, and her thoughts began to bellow, sending harsh vibrations throughout her skull. Her high collared robes became unbearable, and her forearms itched under the heavy grey fabric, tickling her barely healed marks of war.

Vivid flashbacks raged through her memory, and her heart flared open in the pressure cascading through her body. Every image she'd tucked away, hoping to bury and forget, burned in the forefront of her mind, shaking her entire body and throwing her into a state of pure defenselessness. Her breathing became rapid, and fear gripped her; she was surely going crazy. She was losing the one thing had she left...

"_Hermione." _

Her heart beat off time. _I'm losing my mind. _

"Hermione, I'm so glad I've found you."

She looked at him blankly, frozen in the midst of her panic attack.

"Do you have plans for dinner tonight? I tried calling – stupid of me, really, you're always busy ... of course you'd be here."

Hermione let out a little breath, closing her eyes for as long as she could get away with. The haunting images of Tonks, Remus, Fred and the rest of them slowly began to dissipate.

"How's Quidditch going, Ron?"

The redhead smiled sheepishly, looking positively jolly at her interest.

"Great, it's been going wonderfully. There's never been such a demand for the sport! You wouldn't believe how many autographs I've signed. It's bloody brilliant." He chewed his lip thoughtfully for a moment. "What about you? How's work? How's Harry? Odd, I feel like I never see you two anymore..."

He looked up at her with a genuine smile, and Hermione snapped. "Work? So glad you asked. It really is an honour to do this, Ron. Every day, getting that satisfaction of knowing we're really making a difference here, sitting around and agreeing to pass laws that are slowly turning our society into some kind of robotic colony. I mean, _Merlin_, just thinking about the good possibility that one day, maybe, we'll discover a potion that will turn everyone's brain to mush, so nothing bad could ever happen again is absolutely exhilarating! Forget the fact that we'll all be lying side by side on the floor, fascinated by tile patterns, and utterly satisfied with spending our whole lives as useless, unproductive _invalids_!"

Ron blinked at her, and Hermione could feel the anger slide off of her, puttering away to nothing. _Why were her emotions so out of control? _

Every inch of sunshine Ron had with him just moments ago turned to utter shite, and his ears turned their familiar bright red.

"What is it with you? Every day, you've added another stick to all that kindling up your arse! Light a match, and get over yourself. Smile for once!"

The comment stung, but she couldn't gather up the fury she had moments ago.

"You don't understand what we're going through," she said flatly.

"Then tell me!" he roared. A few people turned, taken aback.

"Ron, you're making a scene," she hissed through her teeth.

"I don't care!" His arms folded defensively.

Hermione just stared at her old schoolmate. When had they become so far apart? When had they stopped being able to understand each other? How could he not feel... what her and Harry were feeling so powerfully?

"Hermione, why can't you just explain to me what's going on?" He looked at her, the way that had turned her legs to jelly just months ago. Back then, she would have broke, spilled her heart out. But now, all she saw, all she felt, was pity. He looked so young and confused.

"Ron," she began weakly, "if you can't feel _this_," she lowered her voice dramatically, aware of their public location, "then you can't understand."

He faced screwed into an expression of sheer incomprehension. "How do you know I don't feel what you feel?"

Hermione looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time the entire encounter. They were blue and happy, just like they had always been. He moved a step closer, bridging the gap between them. She could smell that familiar smell; freshly mown grass, spearmint, and something so distinctively _Ron_. His broad chest was inches away from her face, and she could feel his heat radiating off him like wildfire.

For a moment, she almost gave into the comfort. Almost wrapped her arms around him like old times, and let his embrace fix all her problems. But she took a step back, her heart still a slow, dull pound in her chest. She wasn't that easily mended anymore.

"I know, Ron, because you're still _you_." She gave him a half-hearted smile. "You're still okay." The corners of his eyes crinkled; confused, but they were full of hope. Hermione couldn't meet his gaze. "And, no, we're not on for dinner. I'm sorry Ron, but you deserve better than me."

"No, Hermione," Ron replied, glints of tears evident. "There's no one better than you. I get that you're ... messed up right now, and I'll leave you alone if that's what you want. I ... I love you, Hermione."

For a moment, everything was suddenly crystal clear. Ron reached for her face, a long, freckly hand stroking her cheek. She gave herself to him, let his hand guide her head back, and then slowly forwards for a soft kiss. His lips lingered on hers, and her eyes closed, everything suddenly blank. Her hand touched the nape of his neck, immersing itself in his hair. She could smell him so strongly from the light sweat on his skin to all the pheromone reminders of his life – _their_ life – at the Burrow.

She broke away mercilessly, tearing herself away with all the inner strength she possessed; otherwise she was sure she'd have remained in his embrace forever.

"Bye, Ron."

His voice was weak, "When will I see you again?"

Instead of answering, she turned her back to him and walked down the hallway.


	2. Chapter 2

2

_Eviscerate your fragile frame and spill it out in the ragged floor. A thousand different versions of yourself._

_- The Shins, _Sleeping Lessons

* * *

"You don't have to do this."

Hermione could still remember the way Harry squirmed in his seat as he answered.

"No, we do, Professor. They won't have it any other way. It's what's right. My whole life I've been forced into a position of power ... this isn't any different. And I think everyone knows that, that I won't abuse my position because I don't want to be Minister in the first place. Besides ... I think it's what Dumbledore ... what he intended." The words put a pained expression of his face. His fingers tapped on the arm of the chair, unable to sit still.

"Potter, you've done more than your fair share of self sacrificing – you too, Granger. You both need not take this on, especially not for the sake of others. The Wizarding Community will get by, one way or another. We always have."

"It's different this time," Harry pointed out darkly.

McGonagall bowed her head, her fingers rubbing her deeply lined temple. "I don't think you understand how this could ruin you," she said quietly.

Though unbeknownst to her the true extent of McGonagall's words, Hermione had a nerve struck then. She remembered how her pulse pounded in her ears, as she looked fiercely into the eyes of her old teacher.

"Minerva," she spoke as confidently and neatly as she could. "We have to do this, and we will."

She could not remember a time when her Professors face looked as hopeless as it did then.

That was her last meeting with McGonagall. The biweekly tea they had for a few short months enjoyed so thoroughly dwindled away to nothing, losing touch with each other almost entirely. Hermione had pushed all thoughts of this loss, however the possible magnitude, out of her mind and out of her conscious.

So when she received the letter requesting a visit from her old Head of House, Hermione couldn't help but feel surprised. When she arrived, McGonagall had decided a walk in the garden would be more appropriate. The cool spring air rippled through her robes as they wandered through the gardens.

"How have you been?" McGonagall began, her eyes looking so weary, and her face so drawn that Hermione felt inclined to ask the same of her.

Hermione pushed back a stray curl, and drew her eyes over the variety of colourful buds just beginning to bloom. "I've been well, thank you. And yourself?"

"Never mind me," McGonagall waved the question aside, as if her recently celebrated eightieth birthday had instead been eighteenth. "I want to know about you."

The older witch's eyes narrowed, taking in every inch of Hermione, who tried to suppress a wince as she was vividly reminded of the many times during her Hogwarts years when she had been under quite a similar gaze.

McGonagall's impenetrable gaze seemed at least, not to be soul-stripping. "You've cut your hair."

"It's easier to manage," Hermione replied politely, fighting the urge to reach out and touch her now chin length pin curls. She bit her lips before the words _I just don't have the energy anymore_ slipped out.

"Ah. Quite understandable." McGonagall's eyes flickered up and down, surveying Hermione to no end. "It does show your years, my dear."

Hermione wasn't quite sure what to make of that. Instead, she let her eyes wander, drifting along the endless clear blue sky. It felt so close, almost captivating. The impulse to reach out her hand as high and far as she could was one she struggled to retain.

"How is the potion coming along?"

Hermione jolted into focus, taking in a long a breath of cool air to clear her mind. "The potion?"

"The Polyjuice Potion, of course." McGonagall stared at her flatly.

"Whatever are you talking about ..." Hermione's brow furrowed, and her eyes met the Professors with a sudden suspicion. "We're only just begun ... how on Earth could you know about that?"

If Hermione hadn't known better, she would have sworn there was a twinkle in the old woman's eye. "Hermione, you are not as stealthy as you might hope."

"Minerva, I assure you I made no pointed decision to keep this information from you, nor to any members of the Order. I was not aiming to be _stealthy_, as you put it," Hermione replied quickly, an edge to her voice she hadn't expected.

Whatever foolish notion of a twinkle that Hermione might have had vanished instantly as McGonagall's expression darkened, her observant eyes suddenly intruding. "Then, pray tell, what were you trying to achieve?"

"Absolutely nothing!" Hermione snapped, turning sharply to face McGonagall. "I deemed that particular information unimportant. It was merely a case of an inexperienced brewer attempting to expand his knowledge as he saw fit to, given his new position and the tedious situation we are all currently living in. Knowledge is a weapon these days, as you should very well know."

Hermione's eyes flashed, and she paused for a moment, a sudden breeze pushing past her. "I don't know what information you received, or how you could have possibly received it, but I would have thought you held a little more trust in my judgement."

McGonagall no longer seemed to be watching her; instead her eyes were focused amusedly on something behind Hermione. In fact, Hermione noted with a start of indignation, it appeared very doubtful that the Professor had been listening to her at all.

A slight smile fell upon the Headmistress' lips. It was shockingly close to smug, but somehow held some glimmer of respect; appreciation for something Hermione obviously failed to see or recognize. Their eyes met, and Hermione felt only further irritation in the woman's odd actions.

"Ah, now I see it," she murmured, her words soft. "There's a passion there that wasn't there before."

Hermione stared. It took her a moment to realize the Professor was speaking of her.

"Well, the war changed us all," she fumbled heatedly, utterly lost.

"That it did, my child." The Professor gave a long, tired sigh that seemed to shake her to the very bone. The smile, however, remained. "You must be strong, Hermione."

A familiar tightening in her ribcage suddenly left Hermione gasping for air. The only words she could manage were - "Could you excuse me for a moment?" - a notion her feet seemed in eager agreement with. She did not pause for McGonagall's reply. She led herself blindly through puddles and shrubbery, increasing her pace as she reached the edge of the Forest. Her thoughts were drowned out by her pounding heartbeat, and she collapsed on the trunk of a tree, panting for breath.

There were beads of fresh sweat on her face that she quickly brushed off, her breathing heavily laboured – not from the exertion, but something else. Something that had been plaguing her for months now, that she couldn't quite put her finger on. Being a Muggle, she was well read in all kinds of psychiatric disorders, and Post Traumatic Stress disorder seemed to fit perfectly, given her circumstances. But _no_, something in the back of Hermione's brain disagreed violently. Her entire body in fact, seemed to scream in protest of this train of thought, and Hermione fell back hard against the torso of the tree.

If only she could steal away a moment where her thoughts were silent, and her heartbeat steady. Perhaps _then_ she could think, she could make sense of it all. But even then, there would be her work at the Ministry, slovenly and lonely, far below her aptitude. It was insult working with Duke, he treated her more as an obedient dog than an employee – no, employer!

But what had she done to stop him, to put him in his place? Absolutely nothing. The war heroine had proved to be nothing more than a pathetic lapdog.

Her fingernails dug into the hard soil as another wave of panic swept over her, leaving her utterly exhausted. Her breath was raw and coming out in stiff gasps, but somehow she still heard it.

It was a soft, feminine voice. It struck Hermione as familiar, but distant all the same. Like some long lost acquaintance, perhaps, one she had been searching for all these years. A strange, warm blanket of comfort surrounded her, the eerie voice calling out over and over in her head.

"_Hermione."_

It called to her, so she rose to her feet. She let her feet guide her, and she broke into a run. The Forest was getting deeper and darker, and she was only vaguely aware she was venturing into unknown territory.

It stuck out like a sore thumb. What must have been a very ordinary tree seemed to reach out to her, and she suddenly had the affirmation that she had gone the right way. She knelt at the base, the dark making it hard to see anything around her. She reached out a cautious hand, a strange fear overtaking her in the seconds before she touched it. But when she did, that ever so comforting warmth wrapped around her once again, making her forget it was a particularly chilly day in mid March, and that she was deep into sparse, dark areas of the Forest.

Hermione drew her wand. "_Lumos_," she whispered. Everything was illuminated. Her breath caught as she stared at the words engraved in the old tree, not understanding them, but lost in them.

"_As you have never imagined ... Love."_

It felt like hours before she even thought of rising to her feet, and Apparating home.

* * *

Her first time had been awkward, to say the least. There had been a significant trace of punch drunk victory in the air, and it was against her better judgement that she allowed herself to be led into his bedroom. Their first kiss was still fresh on their breath as they clumsily let their hands travel to every place on the other that they had spent years fantasizing about. Their veins were filled to the brim with second hand electricity, so they didn't search for passion in their fumbling advances. So much of what happened was a jumbled memory in Hermione's mind. It seemed like everything had happened in a simple blink of the eye.

When it was over, Hermione watched him sleep. Her own naked body was curled up in the corner, avoiding the moonlight that splashed onto the bed. She hadn't felt anything then; she could only remember watching him with a blank mind, catching murmurs of excitement still raging downstairs, satisfying her that their absence was still unnoticed. Any exhilaration had been painfully drawn from her by that time; replaced only with the startling sensation of pure physical discomfort.

The next morning, neither could bear to meet the other's eyes. Hermione wondered briefly if she had done something horribly, inexcusably wrong the night before. But, she reasoned, how on Earth would he know? He was just as inexperienced as she, if not more so. Hermione could hardly imagine that Ron and Lavender had gone much farther than undignified poking and prodding.

Ten days passed before either of them finally worked up the gall to speak.

"Was it horrible?" Ron asked, coming to uneasy stop before her one night in the library of Grimmauld Place.

"No," Hermione replied, setting down her book. Ron could barely meet her eyes, and his flaming red ears were highly prominent. "But it wasn't good, I don't think."

"Oh." Ron made to sit in the armchair, but on a second thought spun on his ankle and started to pace, his hands wringing together forcefully. "Is this the sort of thing that takes ... err, practice?"

"Maybe," Hermione said softly, an unidentifiable feeling settling in the pit of her stomach.

With hesitance, he kissed her, and in a moment of blindness, Hermione began to wait. As he laid her down, his body grinding against hers for the second and incredibly vivid time, she held her breath. _It would come any moment_, she knew. She moaned when he kissed her neck because she knew it was coming. Her act of pleasure would be true in a moment and the page would finally be turned to reveal the next, final chapter. The one where she lived happily ever after with the man she was destined to be with.

It was too late by the time she realized she was a naive fool. Her first time had been rushed, forgettable, and uncomfortable, but her second time had been complete agony.

So many years worth of yearning came to an abrupt halt that day. Everything she used to find extraordinary about Ron Weasley suddenly couldn't be more mundane. He wasn't spontaneous, he was forgetful. He wasn't creative, he was sloppy. Every exciting notion she had built up about Ron was coming crashing down and try as she might, she couldn't pick up the pieces fast enough. A part of her was desperate to keep these quickly retreating feelings.

She couldn't understand how she could possibly have had a sudden change of hearts after all these years. It simply wasn't logical. But every time he touched her, she had to make a forceful, conscious effort to not shrink away. Those long fingers would leave glossy sweat marks on her pale skin. They would press against her hips, her breasts, and the nape of her neck with such an aimless, unaware passion. He wouldn't reassure or encourage her to respond; in fact her involvement seemed entirely unnecessary. The depth of her revulsion made her stomach turn, and she could never remember dressing as fast as she did that day. The excuses she hurtled at him as she sped through the door were pathetic.

To go on pretending didn't seem like much of an option, but approaching him with a mouthful of, "_You see, Ron, I'm just not attracted to you in the slightest anymore!", _didn't seem particularly doable either.

There was a coward's way out and she took it. She hadn't spoken to him in three weeks before their encounter in the Ministry. As far as she might have thrown the whole affair into the back of her mind, Ron certainly hadn't forgotten about it.

* * *

"Spoke with Ron today," Harry mentioned conversationally, pushing a particularly dismal batch of canned green peas around on his plate.

Hermione continued scrubbing dishes. The only sign that she gave that she even heard him was the excess force she was now putting into cleaning the plate in her hands.

"He invited me over for lunch," Harry persisted unprompted. "At Grimmauld."

"Well, where else?"

"I don't know..." Harry took a small, unenthusiastic bite of his meat, chewing it with a look of minor disdain. "He says it finds it homey. Only no one comes around, anymore."

"Everyone's busy, Harry."

"I know that." Harry took another small bite, rubbing his temples as he slowly swallowed. "He can't help but miss his family."

With Bill and Fleur taking up a permanent residence in France, Molly and Arthur shutting themselves up in the Burrow save for emergencies, Charlie back with his dragons, and Ginny completely absorbing herself in helping George get the joke shop back on it's feet, he didn't have much of a family left. Suffice to say her and Harry weren't offering any support – but how could he expect anything else? They were up to their eyeballs being responsible adults, instead of gallivanting around a Quidditch pitch, thinking all the world's a stage...

Hermione let out a slow breath, slowing her washing and allowing a pang of guilt to hit her. When she had started allowing herself to think such horrid things, she'd never know.

"I heard you had a few words with him at the Ministry." Harry's tone was flat. The topic seemed to be brought up purely in the favour of conversation. She snuck a glance at him. He was staring blankly down at his food, his face drawn and pale, lined with worry and much too thin. He'd been looking roughly the same for the last six months.

"I've been having words with everybody it seems, lately." Hermione resumed her scrubbing, drawing out the process as she reached the very last dish.

"Really?" He didn't sound interested.

"I don't know what's come over me," she said, thinking of McGonagall.

"I see." She heard the clatter of dishes, and Harry's plate appeared beside her, barely touched. Hermione looked up at the man beside the plate, who was attempting to stifle a yawn.

"You should really make an effort with Ron," he muttered half-heartedly. "You two have barely spoken in weeks."

Hermione's eyes snapped up to Harry. "You should really make an effort with Ginny."

"Don't." His voice came out hoarsely. He didn't meet her gaze.

"Okay," she said after a moment, studying his hard expression. "I won't. I'm sorry."

Harry moved back, his palms pressed on his forehead as he let out an exhausted groan.

"Merlin," he muttered. Hermione turned at the sound of a stopper being pulled out, forgetting about the dishes.

"Do you want to stay up with me for a while?" he asked, already collapsing back on the couch with a tumbler of Firewhiskey in his hand.

She looked at the clock. It was nearly midnight. Surely, it was going to be one of _those_ nights. Drawing a long breath, she poured herself a cup of lukewarm tea, wishing she hadn't brought up Ginny.


	3. Chapter 3

3

_I'm having trouble breathing_  
_You're sitting on my chest_  
_I sure could use the rest_  
_Leave me._

_- The Perishers, _Trouble Sleeping

* * *

Hermione slammed down her mug of coffee perhaps a little too hard, as its contents swirled madly and trickled over the side, stirring a momentary pause in their heated conversation. She immediately snapped back to attention, her brain full of the white noise that results from a night with too few hours of decent sleep, but pushed on regardless, a blazing, utterly Hermione look fixed shrewdly upon her face.

"You have to stop. You're not being fair to yourself, Harry." She fixated every ounce of the injustice and devastation that was bubbling within her on the skinny, tired man before her; undeserving of such a treatment, perhaps, but perhaps he wasn't. At this moment, the point felt horribly moot to Hermione.

Harry commenced his pacing, his now much-too-long hair sticking to his forehead and obscuring his eyes from view. "I don't give a damn about myself. It's never been about me, so why on Earth should I start to consider my well-being now, of all times?"

"If you don't care, someone should," she shot back fiercely. "And I _do_ Harry, I can't stand to see you..." She broke off, unsure of what next to say, and how to phrase her desperation, her inner panic. "I can't lose you," she decided quickly, hating the way her voice broke. "It's simply not an option. Please see what you're doing to yourself. This is becoming an addiction. It's unhealthy, and it's dangerous."

Harry squeezed his eyes shut tightly; prompting Hermione to hope that maybe this particular hangover could convince him more than her words. "I don't know what you expect me to say," he said quietly, daring to glance up at her. His green eyes, unlike the rest of his face, were pure. They looked exactly as they had the first time they had ever met, on the Hogwarts Express. Fresh and eager, if not a little withdrawn and apprehensive. They were the eyes of someone great, someone deep, and someone full of love. Hermione felt a small, scared breath release itself from her body. His eyes still had hope, at least.

"I don't know what I expect you to say either, really," she murmured. "I just want you to know I worry."

"You never need to remind me of that," Harry replied, half-heartedly. "Seven years will never let me forget."

Hermione looked down at her hands, twisting them together tightly and breaking them apart again. Her mind buzzed, images of Hogwarts and Harry and happiness not quite coming into focus.

"You know I love you, Hermione?" Harry said, in a small, slightly uncomfortable voice; they had rarely exchanged such declarations in years past. Hermione could remember just how Harry had blushed every time she kissed him on the cheek, so saying _I love you_ was of no little importance coming from him.

Hermione met his eyes again. He looked sheepish. "You had better, Harry Potter." The pit of her stomach rumbled uncomfortably; this had to be one of those moments when she ought to run and embrace her friend, and subsume together a rare moment of calm.

As the feeling intensified, Hermione stared straight ahead and stood her ground as a silence passed between them, short and sweet. "I love you, as well." The words came with ease; a sincere delivery from a well-practiced actor.

He smiled lightly at her response, and then sat down slowly in his seat. Hermione took this as a well-placed cue to leave, musing at memories of another man whom similarly and politely excused people.

* * *

Her knock was short, sound, and precise. It was the knock of someone who had purpose; and if Hermione had achieved nothing else, she had achieved a sense of purpose, even if at times she herself forgot what it was.

The slim silhouette of a pale, tired man filled the frame as the door creaked open slowly, sun shining off the bronze plaque upon it.

"Hermione," said the silky, cool voice of Draco Malfoy, his eyes fixed unmoving on her face. "What a pleasure. Come in."

He opened the door a mere sliver to allow her entry, blocking all view of his office from any possible bystanders in the hallway.

Draco moved around the crowded office space, gesturing towards a single, shabby looking chair for her to sit in. His face held a small smile, unconvincing to the shrewd nature and experience of Hermione.

"I hear you're making friends every which way," Draco quipped quietly. "Pansy received a handful of colourful complaints concerning your demeanour this week."

Hermione snorted, resting an elbow on the arm of the chair. "Why on Earth would I need to make friends? And honestly, I can't believe you're still acquainted with her, Draco. She's foul, and she only got that position from manipulation and a couple of cleverly conceived curses."

"She keeps me informed," he replied, wiping his finger across a patch of dust lining a shanty cabinet shoved into the left corner. "And spares me from loneliness," he added cheekily, turning to her.

Hermione's face twisted into a look of utter disgust. "Look, I'm here purely for business... so I shan't waste any time getting down to it."

"Please, my time is ever so precious." Draco fitted himself comfortably upon his cluttered desk, a typical smirk upon his face.

"I wouldn't come to you unless it were absolutely necessary, as I'm sure you know." She steeled herself for what she must say next, staring firmly into his eyes, pushing away any feelings of anxiety or discomfort. "You're really the only person I know in this field. The information I've been carrying pertains directly to your line of work..."

She broke off, a fleet of memories flashing before her eyes, all of which she quickly put to the back of her mind. "I was wondering," she continued, steadily, "how you can tell ... when it's performed."

The unfamiliar look of confusion settled over Draco's features. Hermione's thoughts snapped back to the door of his office and the plaque that lay upon it, catching the light as he opened the door: _"Draco Malfoy – Administrative Assistant, Obliviation Department._"

"Tell if ... you've been Obliviated, you mean?" Draco's voice was calm, thoughtful, almost endearing as he spoke softly.

She paused in her thoughts and cast a glance at the single photograph on his desk, that of his mother, looking so particularly young, so particularly hopeful...

Her eyes flashed to Draco, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, white forearms glowing the dull sunlight. She stared without regard, and he followed her gaze. Slowly, with all the grace that he had been bred for, he raised and turned his left arm, unveiling a labyrinth of deep scars, thin white snakes swarming the area just below his wrist, to the point where the original skin was no longer visible. Hermione was immersed; the deeper she looked, the more she could see, the blood, the dedication in his eyes, and the look in his mother's as she screamed.

"How long ago was it, Granger?" Draco's voice was suddenly hard, and her eyes snapped up to meet his unrelenting ones. The sleeve of his robes fell back into place.

"Five months." It took more than she had in her to continue to meet his eyes.

Draco's eyes widened, and then narrowed, his chest now heaving. "I see."

"So," The word tasted bad in her mouth, but she pressed forward, her eyes unwavering on Draco, "is there a way to tell?"

He spread his white fingers wide, and then gracefully weaved them together. Hermione kept her eyes on his fingernails, cut so short they were almost bleeding, and the tip of his scar, which ran from his thumb down into the folds of fabric he wore. A flash of him, looking so much younger even just months ago, as he drew the dagger, his face never seeming so majestic and so pained as he held the weapon up to glint in the light.

"Any idea who might have committed the Obliviation?"

Names rushed through her head, but none held much value. "No."

He smoothed back a strand of sleek, blonde hair, and let out a small breath. The intricacy of his jaw muscles as they contracted and relaxed was intoxicating; the sheer simplicity and resolution was absolutely captivating. His face, despite the loss of everything else, had remained intact, and for once Hermione could appreciate its beauty.

"I doubt there's very much we can do," he said, his voice flat and without comfort. Hermione was glad of it; Draco Malfoy offering any kind of outward empathy was more than she could handle, even now. "Sorry," he offered pathetically, with a cool smile, and absolutely no sincerity.

"Really, it's all right," she reassured him, matching his small smile. "I wasn't expecting any miracles."

Draco averted his eyes, and Hermione took a long look around his office. He had quickly progressed from the cubicle he'd once inhabited, but it was far from what he could have achieved once upon a time, thanks to family connections. The thought of a Malfoy working their way up pleased and disappointed her. It pleased her, because their appalling aristocracy and undeserved smugness had only asked for a falling out such as this; disappointed, because Malfoy had, before crowds of people, mutilated himself all to become separate from such a name, from such a reputation. Draco didn't receive a scrap of public recognition for it, yet she herself had a top floor office for merely playing happy family with the great Harry Potter. Yet the Draco Malfoy that sat before her didn't seem to care, with his head held high in a characteristic and hopelessly dignified manner he peered down at her, his grey eyes filled with the glimmering tinges of that never-failing self assurance.

"Out of curiosity, what event can you not recall?"

Her heart sank down to the pit of her stomach, bubbling and brewing with its acidic contents. Hermione took every moment she could before she finally, painfully, answered, "Severus Snape's death."

Draco, as always, hid his emotion well. "I wasn't aware you were present," he said, his words icy, but his eyes would not stay in one place, fitfully searching for comfort.

"Yes, I was. I _know_ I was. I remember entering ... coming out ..." She swallowed the hard lump in her throat, looking at Draco so long as he continued looking away. "Besides, Harry told me so."

Draco snorted, and Hermione felt for a moment a fear that if she blinked, she would be transported back to fifth year, trapped in a pointless, fiery argument with Malfoy Jr. She didn't know what would be worse – dealing with the boy he was or living as the girl she had been.

"Yes, put your trust in the all-knowing Potter," he said.

"He's telling the truth about this."

"You hesitated."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. He was looking at her with an odd, curious expression. "I did not."

He raised his eyebrow a fraction of an inch, his lips as elegantly placed as his hands as he spoke. "I'm sure the roommate of The-Boy-Who-Can't-Even-Get-His-Own-Life-Together has more than noticed the few ... downtrodden aspects to Potter's governing style as of late."

"That has nothing to do with this, Draco. You know the situation."

"I am very well acquainted with it. What I am speaking of is a coward relying on a person of much greater intelligence to do his job for him. I know the hurdles you're facing, Hermione, and that's my point – that it is _you_ facing them, not that sorry bastard." Draco ended as though he had just disposed of a particular rancid bag of garbage, disgust etched into his features.

Hermione felt anger rampage through her bones, and against her better judgement, or any sort of judgement at all she stood, slamming her hands down on the desk so hard that they stung. Regardless, she stood, her mouth and brain so full of rampant energy and retorts of personal insult to the calm, unflinching man before her. "Like always, Malfoy, you know absolutely _nothing_ about it."

"Are you fucking him?"

Hermione tried to retain her gasp. From any other male, she would have taken those words for sure jealousy, but from Draco, they were creeping curiosity. Perhaps even a jibe, to further rile her up. She stared at him, his strange, easy-going persona, and saw a certain perception in his expression, mixed with a firm, titillating interest.

"No."

"Good. I expect better of you," he replied, all curiosity suddenly barren from his demeanour. Hermione felt oddly as though she was being left out of some kind of joke.

She could still feel the blood pumping fast and furious through her veins as she turned to Draco again. "You're hardly one to lecture about good morals, don't you think?"

"No, I'm not," he answered, with a hint of amusement. Hermione felt at a loss. Something was tugging at the back of her brain, ever so softly, but with every determination of a scream. Her eyes met Draco's and she caught a glimpse of something shining, forthright and sure beneath their surface.

She quickly looked away, a strange embarrassment flooding her senses.

"You have no idea what's coming," he murmured, so softly she scarcely believed it had been said.

She felt a dull, thudding numbness encroach her brain. "I think ... you remind me of someone." It was her voice, but the thought came from no where. The light seemed to be shining brighter, blurring her vision, and threatening her balance.

"I know I do."

Hermione could only guess she walked out at that point, but she would never be entirely sure.


	4. Chapter 4

4

_And I'm screaming at the top of my lungs, pretending the echoes belong to someone. Someone I used to know..._

_- The Postal Service, _We Will Become Silhouettes

* * *

Hermione took a moment to let her surroundings sink in. She stood with a hand held out for balance and glanced around. She could see the staircase that led to the now abandoned Department of Mysteries, adjacent to a large, ripped tapestry of a wizard having his wand serviced by a house-elf. Her vision blotched with coloured spots for a few seconds as she tried to collect her thoughts. She could still feel Draco's eyes burning into hers. This memory made her feel strangely subdued, like her grasp of reality had been somewhat loosened...

A sudden patter of footsteps against the marble startled Hermione back into full consciousness. Her blood was pounding in her veins with an anticipatory force, and she drew her wand. This floor had been deserted for months, avoided by all wizards, still haunted by the activities undertook there.

The footsteps grew louder, accompanied by loud, indistinct voices, and Hermione rushed to the top of the stairs, pressing herself tight against the wall. She searched her brain for any reason why a member of the Ministry would be on this floor – she herself, in the position she was in, shouldn't be even be there. A breach in security, the entrance of an outsider, was perhaps the worst thing imaginable. Harry's associates deemed such a feat impossible but Hermione, after years of nothing being what it appeared to be, or acting as it should, knew better.

Her wand light was the only thing keeping the corridor illuminated, and as the sound of men grew louder, she quickly extinguished it, leaving herself in total darkness. She held her wand high, her body tense and still.

"It's heavy! Give me a hand before I drop it." The voice was deep and unfamiliar. "Quickly!"

She heard a grunt of relief. A dot of light appeared on the wall in front of Hermione for a moment, and then disappeared.

"No, don't try to use magic. It doesn't work; they've got it cursed."

The second voice was higher and prodded at something in Hermione's memory. "This is ridiculous. It won't work, I swear it won't work!"

There was sharp intake of breath, and a glaring red light for a moment lit up the entire chamber.

"_Bugger_!"

"Don't you _ever _disrespect the Dark Lord's requests," the first man growled.

Hermione's wand hand tightened, her knuckles crunching with the pressure. There were Death Eaters, or whatever they remained to be called, in the Ministry. Her mind filled with old Order hexes and curses, trying to ignore the stampede beating of her heart.

"I wasn't! Just look at this – piece of shite, isn't it?"

There footsteps were close; she could their breath. It was now or never. She shifted from her hiding spot, turning quickly on her heel to face the men in the near blackness.

"Did you hear --?"

"_STUPEFY!" _She shouted, hitting Blaise Zabini squarely in the chest.

"Bloody – _Reducto!_" Hermione quickly reflected the curse, staring into the muscular Death Eater's void brown eyes.

"_Expelliarmus!_"

He deflected it with ease, coughing out a hoarse, hacking laugh. "My, my, if it isn't the world famous Mudblood!" He snarled as he shot a silent curse her way.

"Fuck you," she hissed, shooting a curse right back at him. She shot a quick glance at the object dangling in his left hand; a large, chained piece of brass.

She stepped quickly to the right, narrowly avoiding an Unforgivable. Just as she shot a curse back in return, she caught a glimpse of Zabini starting to stir.

"Quite a mouth she's got on her," said the other wizard, more to himself than anything.

"Detected a pattern yet?" she said crisply, moving forward carefully, keeping her eyes on her quickly recovering alumni. "Mudblood as I may be, somehow I keep ending up right here," she took a deft step forward, putting herself between her two opponents, "kicking your sorry arses."

The Death Eater scowled, dark lines burned in his face. "I can assure you this time you won't be walking away the hero."

A commotion to her left alerted her that Zabini had gotten up. She whirled around, but not fast enough. A thin, veined hand grasped her wrist, and she turned to stare into the muddy eyes of her old schoolmate.

"This time, you won't be walking away at all."

In a swift motion with her free hand, she broke Zabini's grasp on her wrist and pushed him backwards with a kick to the stomach.

"_Stupefy!_" she cried, whirling around and paralyzing her other opponent. As she picked up the discarded object, her finger pressed against a dial, and immediately Hermione knew what was in her hands.

"You're right about one thing," she said as the world her behind to slide away. "I certainly won't be walking away."

Like a familiar dream, everything went black.

* * *

It was unlike her daily usage of time turners back in third year. This time the sensation was accompanied by an acute feeling of anticipation. Hermione, with no time to spare, had twisted the hour glass radically with no notion of how far she had pushed it. The blur of indistinct faces and places seemed to be rushing by her much too fast. She felt as if she was teetering on the edge of consciousness.

_Something is wrong_, she thought, her head feeling heavy and obsolete. _Perhaps I've broken it, perhaps..._

Suddenly, everything lurched to an ungraceful halt, and Hermione found herself on a cold, stone floor. Her reality was not clear, the walls and ceiling seemed to blur into one another and cast a foreboding sense, as if they'd turn to dust at any moment.

Squinting her eyes, she tried to make out where she was. The looming ceiling and high windows were that of the Hogwarts Astronomy Tower – they had to be.

Hermione sucked in a breath, the air around her seeming much too dense. She looked down at the time turner resting in her palm and registered with a terrifying sinking sensation that this was, _not _a time turner – at least not in any form she had seen before.

It was then she heard a sharp intake of breath. She spun around, the air surrounding her moving slowly to compensate.

By the Northernmost window stood a tall figure. Hermione moved as fast as she could through the space, quickly recognizing the blurred outline of the billowing black and the strong, sharp profile.

"Professor Snape?"

The figure spun around much faster than what seemed possible. She could now see one leg lifted onto the ledge and perhaps – was it? – tear stained cheeks.

But the man before her was much, much too young. He was still a child – younger than Hermione, even. Beady black eyes stared, confused and fearful.

"Don't do it," she whispered, before everything blended together, faces and objects, becoming once more incomprehensible.

This time, she did not wake.


	5. Chapter 5

5

_Wipe the guilt out from your eyes and leave your conscience on the bed, there's no one innocent here._

_- David Usher, _The Music

* * *

In the dense heat of yet another St. Martin's Summer, two men stood looming over an unmoving figure lying in a small hospital cot. Both were adorned in heavy robes, one in high-necked jet black, and the other in velvety puce. The older of the two men stepped forward, a white veined hand stroking an impressive beard.

"I trust you to be the pinnacle of discretion, Severus," said the elder, his words soft but firm as he gazed down at the sleeping girl.

Severus moved his eyes to the gaunt form of the young woman, watching her thin body rise and fall with every wracking breath.

"I assume, Headmaster, that you perceive her to be of great importance to us; the possibilities of knowledge she retains? She could be the key to stopping this war before it's even happened."

The old man let out a quiet chuckle, his eyes twinkling a shade bluer than usual. "You forget that the future has already occurred, Severus. We are helpless to its consequences." He withdrew his hand and touched the girls arm ever so lightly, a single finger settling upon its white expanse. "When she is ready, we will hear her story."

He moved from his place, carelessly flicking his wand to remove the charms. "When she is well, you will take her down to the dungeons – find a place for her there."

Severus' head shot up, his dark eyes rumbling. "Headmaster, you do not expect me to take her in..."

"The castle is full of unwanted eyes. We cannot let her fall into the wrong hands." The Headmaster lifted his aged head, a forehead of deep lines knotted and his face drawn back into absolute sincerity. The serious expression he wore looked unfamiliar and strange. "There is much more than life and death at sake here. _She must not be seen._"

He rose with a grace that seemed to defy his years, walking over to the foremost corner of the room, his coloured robes littered in pale moonlight. "I feel you will discover you have much in common with this witch, Severus. Do not disappoint me." With a turn of his heel, he exited the infirmary.

The sudden silence made the air dense; Severus was absolutely still, a deep scowl on his face. What the old fool knew, or could foresee, he had no idea. He was beginning to get used to the feeling of being duped.

His eyes rested again on the unconscious girl. She was no beauty. She had a mess of unruly curls that overwhelmed most of her face, her skeletal features jolting out of her flat complexion. She was young, but there was something aged sunken into her skin.

Severus stood from his own place at her bedside, his face quickly enveloped in darkness. It was getting late, and he did not have time to play nursemaid. In the distance, the howl could be heard, bittersweet and desperate as it called the retreating moon. Severus' eyes flicked downwards in the darkness, his expression masked, before he disappeared into the remainder of the night.

* * *

Hermione stirred after what felt like hours. Her head was heavy and swarmed with unfinished dreams and feeling. With a jerking remembrance of reality, she shot up in bed, her eyes snapping up despite her unwilling physicality. She recognized her surroundings immediately: the Hospital Wing of Hogwarts.

"Hello."

Though she recognized the voice, she made a wild grasp for her wand, which miraculously still remained in her pocket. Her actions were met with a soft chuckle.

"I assure you, you will not need that now."

Reluctantly, Hermione met the eyes of Albus Dumbledore. She could not yet find her voice, so instead she stared, keeping her expression hard and distant.

The silence was not broken for a long, aching moment.

"I'm no threat to you," she said quietly, holding his gaze. "This has all been a terrible accident."

"Oh, I believe you," Dumbledore replied incessantly, smiling with great assurance. "The whole thing seemed wonderfully impromptu, taking into account your utter unconsciousness when you arrived."

"Well ... yes." She paused, eyes narrowing, unsure of how much he knew, and much was due his knack for guessing. "Do you know ... whatI am?"

"Certainly I do," he said, his expression infinitely more serious. "You are a witch, and also happen to be a _who_, one that goes by the title of Hermione Jane Granger." He looked at his watch carefully and then back at Hermione. "And right now you are five years, seven months, thirteen days, and fourteen hours old."

"How – how on –?" stuttered Hermione, unsure which display of utter omnipresence should be taken into account first.

Dumbledore smiled warmly. "I happen to not only be a very powerful, very _clever_ wizard – as I'm sure you're well aware – but I also happen to be Headmaster of Hogwarts, the school in which your name has been for since birth, and which you will be attending in six and a half years time."

Hermione's eyebrows knotted – her predicament of literally been lost in time had been temporarily forgotten as she found herself immersed in Dumbledore's words.

"But I'm a Muggleborn –"

"My dear, just because _you_ won't discover your magic for another year or so doesn't mean that the Wizarding world cannot sense the presence of another witch borne."

Hermione blinked, a thousand questions flooding the still watery bowels of her mind.

Dumbledore did not give her a chance to speak, as he leaned in suddenly at that moment, his face suddenly grave.

"Miss Granger, your appearance is nothing short of impossible. Such magic has never been proven, nor for that matter – tested. The fact that you have arrived here relatively unharmed and in one piece is miraculous." He surveyed her, his expression unreadable. "No one can know you are here. There is a purpose, I am sure, to this accident, but I am not so much a fool to gamble with your safety – or anyone else's for that matter – to discover what it may be. For your own good, I must ask that remain hidden here for the time being."

"Professor, really –"

"And do not – I repeat – do _not_ tell anyone anything that you would not want to know yourself."

Her eyes steeled. "Of course I won't, do you take me for a fool? I understand the precarious imbalance I am in, Professor; I don't need anyone to lecture me on it. Furthermore, I refuse to let myself fall into your responsibility. I am a grown witch, and I can very well –"

"And I am a grown wizard, with years and years of experience and knowledge on you." The grave expression had subsided, and Hermione looked up to a pair of twinkling blue eyes. "You are no imposition on me, I assure you, nor on Severus."

Hermione felt as though if she had been standing, this might have been enough to make her fall.

"Sev – _Snape_?"

Something danced behind the sapphire of Dumbledore's eyes. "The very one."

"What – _er _– what year is it, sir?" Her own mind screamed in revulsion to the idea of doing any maths herself.

"1985," Dumbledore replied without hesitation.

"Right, of course," she mumbled. Hermione tried to grasp the situation – Severus Snape would know – _knew_ – of her situation, of her being here. All the years of abuse, and cold stares flew to the surface of her mind, lifting the hairs on the back of her neck in reckless, raw emotion. _1985 _... _he must barely be out of his stint as a Death Eater_. Her heart sped up a little more; _not to mention the recent death of Lily Potter. _

"Sir," she said suddenly, drawing the older wizards wandering eye back to her, "when you mentioned Snape, did you mean for me to understand he is also aware of ... what – _who_ – I am?"

"Yes, I did," he responded, his eyes twinkling again.

Hermione's heart, unwittingly, sped up again. If only he knew her as she did him. If only he knew that in a few years time, she would be his student, and best friend of the sole reminder of everything horrible done to him – and the only thing he'd done right.

"Sir," she said again, but this time Dumbledore's attention had not shifted. "Perhaps ... perhaps it's not the best idea if Professor – er – Severus knows I'm here. It's just ..." She bit her lip, unsure of what to reveal.

"No." Dumbledore's answer was firm but not harsh. "I think Severus' involvement in this matter is pivotal."

There was a tense silence. Hermione felt overcome by her thoughts, most racing too fast to get any coherency out of. Dumbledore continued to watch her, his face absolute.

"You will be staying with him," he said clearly. "The dungeons are the safest place in the castle – you have a significantly smaller chance of being discovered there." His eyes seemed to bore into hers, searching without prying. "Also, Severus is a very powerful wizard; I trust you will be safe as his ward."

Hermione bristled, her pride and dignity betrayed. "I can certainly look after myself, Professor," she said venomously. "And, _pray tell_, how old is Severus? Not more than twenty five, I should assume?"

The headmaster's old face broke into a wide, unexpected smile. "Quite right! Please do not think I am undermining your abilities. I am absolutely positive you are very able." His eyes flex down to her wand, now clenched tightly in her fist. "That wand has seen marvellous magic. And _I _can only assume you are not more than twenty?" He finished triumphantly, eyes smiling to match.

She grunted her reply, trying not to feel flattered at his acknowledgement.

"Now," he continued briskly, "I should think that now would be an appropriate time for me to leave. You must certainly be exhausted."

Just as the words left his mouth, she felt exhaustion hit her, as if by magic.

She stayed conscious just long enough to meet his bright blue eyes and his calming voice say, "Goodnight, Hermione.

* * *

_A/N: I would just like to say to everyone reading, that this story is being written with clear direction, but only as inspiration hits me. Right now I'm writing a lot, but I simply don't have time to look for a beta -- if you'd like to volunteer, great, but this story is being written because I need and want it to be. It's been in my brain for so long, it has to get out. So this is basically a long apology and heads up for any typos/grammar/spelling errors. It's bound to happen. If you like the story, I hope you can just pass over them. I would love to be able to give this a good long edit, but it's just not in the stars right now. Bear with me, and thanks for reading!_


	6. Chapter 6

6

_You walk this world like you're a ghost, your hands are coming through the needles. Sick of your tragic and the evils, I am the keeper of the songs of everyone._

_- Remy Zero_, Prophecy

* * *

"_Michel, give it here."_

_The young man had a glimmer of utter defiance in his eyes, and his fingers tightened against the brass as he took a step towards her._

_She met his eyes tenderly, but with ferocity he knew he could never overwhelm. "Michel, you know this is the right thing to do."_

"_You don't know how hard it is," he said quietly, his voice breaking in parts. His eyes shone an even paler blue as he stared firmly at the floor, trying hopelessly to regain composure. "I know you're right, but it's so hard ... it's so hard to care! This is my entire world. This is what we created, this is our child, and I can't just throw it all away!"_

_Michel turned to the wall, his other fist pounding against the stone. A strangled cry escaped his dry, cracked lips, the tears finally escaping. She drew near him with trepidation, her sturdy figure an easy pillar for him to rest himself. She encircled him tightly with strong arms, letting his tears stain her back as if they were her own._

"_Michel," she said as she moved back, feeling the same stabbing pain sweep her body. "Give it to me."_

_With shaking hands, he did, bowing his head and letting his neat brown curls cover his grief-stricken face. She turned and put it in the basket, tying up the loose ends and saying a silent prayer as she quickly and quietly stowed it away, not letting herself have any second thoughts. She could hear Michel's moans from behind her._

_The door slammed behind her, and she drew her wand._

"_Are you sure?"_

_She did not hear him._

_With a great sweep of her wand, she murmured the words she had been practicing for days and a loud crack broke through the air. A light traced the lining of the door frame as she watched it slowly, mercifully, fade into the wall._

Hermione could smell breakfast before she saw it. In her state of half-slumber, images of dancing bacon and smiling eggs filled her vision, doing twirls and back flips with bits of hash brown. This daze felt comfortable, and she smiled in amusement.

"_Get up."_

The bacon had a gruff tone, and suddenly all the food became solemn, their expression turning grave.

"Get up."

It was the jolt of her mattress that finally awakened her. Hermione shot up. Her blankets were wrapped around her in a knot, and she looked around wildly through the curtain of her curls.

To her left, his arms in a tight cross, and his face matching the expression of the bacon to a tee, stood Severus Snape. By his waist was a breakfast tray, which he followed her gaze to and snarled.

"This was here when I arrived." His eyes stared into hers, void of any expression other than pure inconvenience.

_Oh_, Hermione thought, her hunger suddenly faded away.

"I am simply here to take you to your destination. You could call me a ... _courier_, of sorts." His face broke a thin, well contained smirk.

A bird chirped loudly from outside her window. The sunlight was streaming in, warm and fresh on her face. Hermione shifted in her blankets, aware of the lack of proper clothing she was adorned in. To her right lay a neat pile of wizarding robes. She shot a meaningful look at Snape.

"Some privacy?" She nodded towards the robes.

"You can do that later."

"No. I can do this now," Hermione snapped back in reply, moving towards him, her legs dangling off the side of the bed and her arms crossed in a similar fashion to his.

Snape's expression flickered from blank for a spilt second. Hermione held her breath, awaiting an explosion, but received none.

"Fine," he snarled, and thrust the curtains around Hermione's tiny cot.

Hermione jumped to her feet, annoyed at the sense of his remaining presence just inches away from her. She could hear him seething impatiently as she stripped down, putting on her newly washed and pressed robes, and typing her hair up in a messy bun.

She opened the curtains promptly, standing right in front of his unwavering frame that had seemed to not move an inch.

"I'm ready," she said curtly. He raised his eyebrow, and inclined his head slightly, motioning for her to go in front.

"You know the way," he said, boredom dripping from every syllable.

Hermione prickled. She disliked the amount of information he was being given; she knew he had proved himself trustworthy in future, for matters concerning the greater good, but in terms of her privacy or well-being? She would not bet on it, surely.

The less she said the better.

The journey down the marble staircases and numerous corridors was like clockwork; Hermione moved quickly and set a pace, acutely aware of Snape's eyes on her back. The dungeons were dimly lit, and as she approached her old Potions classroom she hesitated. She had never ventured further than this. With great displeasure, she turned back towards Snape for guidance.

He stared at her for a moment, almost in a taunting manner, before stepping in front of her, edging into a narrow hallway to their left. "This way," he said silkily.

There were torches lining the slim passageway, their light sparking shadows as they rushed forwards. There were dark stains on the stone, tinting the walls from shoulder height down to the ground._Blood, _Hermione thought, a shiver running down her spine as she thought of figures in long black robes and contoured masks. It was not far-fetched to imagine the dark man in front of her – his shoulders hunched and head held stiffly – in such a getup, running through these very corridors, slumped and bleeding from a night of torture and punishment...

"Hurry _up_."

His voice reverberated in harsh, dulcet tones along the long hallway, and Hermione quickly sped up, her cheeks reddening furiously as she mumbled angry retorts under her breath.

After a long time of the same walls seeming to only repeat themselves, Snape suddenly halted, wand drawn, facing a wall like any other they had passed. His features were knotted in serene concentration and Hermione could not suppress her fascination, she leaned in closer, trying to discover any oddity or distinctive feature that he had spotted.

A loud snap broke from the tip of his wand and Hermione started, causing him to cast a lucrative, sidelong glance at her. Hermione averted her eyes, again feeling heat rising to her face.

"We're here," he said shortly, tapping the wall as the frame of a door appeared. As the knob materialized, he grasped it firmly and swung open the door inward, not pausing to allow her first entry. Hermione scowled, and followed behind.

The room was small and smelled damp. There was green tapestry decorating the walls, with pictures of wizards adorned in silver and black, hunting and feasting. The walls, like those of the passageway outside, were stone, adorned with a border of snakes along the perimeter of the room.

"How very _Slytherin_," Hermione snorted, stepping in front of Snape.

She could feel his eyes bore into her back. "I hardly think you're in a position to _complain_, Miss Granger. You should be entirely thankful to Professor Dumbledore for this great hospitality. Not _everyone_..." he paused venomously on the word, "... would give you the same treatment."

Hermione spun around, meeting his eyes without hesitation. "Believe me, Snape, I'm more than grateful. Don't you think I understand my predicament? If it had been you I was faced with, I might be dead right now."

There was a long moment. Snape's expression seemed to be void of any acknowledgement, any understanding – until slowly and surely, a look of remote curiosity invaded his features. His eyes flashed and he lowered his head, his tangles of black hair almost covering his small smirk.

"You know my name," he whispered softly, letting his words sink into the silence. Hermione felt an uneasy sensation rise and fall in her stomach. His eyes did not leave hers – there was a shine in them that made her feel sick with unease; the knowledge she had of his identity seemed to spark some interest in her that she had been glad had been lacking before. She could not trust this man – he was petty, manipulative, and a criminal. He had saved the Wizarding world, but he was dangerous, and Hermione had had enough danger to last a lifetime.

"And you're right," he continued suddenly, slick and calm, rising to his full height and stepping away from her, never breaking eye contact, "I would have killed you." He turned towards her in his pacing, his face mere inches from hers. She could see every contour of his face, every blemish and scar. Hermione did not look away, as his eyes searched her, willing out any possibility for manipulation, intimidation. She would not let him succeed; regardless, he smirked, his features blackened and harsh in the severe lighting. "It appears we are not strangers, Hermione."

She backed away, her heart thudding sickeningly in her throat. "Leave me," she said hoarsely, breaking eye contact at last. The floor seemed to float towards her in a haze; vomit rose to her throat. Snape stood, unmoving – she glared up at him with her last ounce of ferocity. "_Now._"

Snape bowed his head, dropping his eyes as he did so, and left the room in a billow of dark fabric.

Hermione collapsed to the floor as the door slammed shut, crawling towards the wastebasket and cradling it in her arms as she relieved the little contents of her stomach.

* * *

**A/N: Just to clear it up before any questions are asked. The revelation of Hermione using Severus' surname appears to not be entirely as groundbreaking as Severus seems to believe, because Dumbledore and Hermione talked avidly about Severus by name in the previous chapter. However, for Severus, this is his first clear indication that Hermione IS, in fact, from the future. He is a highly critical and suspicious man, and even with Dumbledore's word, I doubt he would easily believe the circumstance. Furthermore, he is not aware that Dumbledore and Hermione had the conversation they did, as Dumbledore left the hospital wing before Severus did, and therefore Severus would have no idea of his return. **


	7. Chapter 7

7

_In the station you're standing, n__ot knowing what you want. __And the secrets we're defending h__ave become our only bond._

_- The Swell Season, _Fantasy Man

* * *

The fireplace crackled ravenously, its flames engulfing the remaining un-charred wood. Severus stood by the hearth, unable to sit, his delicate fingers twitching minutely as the Headmaster observed. The pale blue eyes held no expression, there were simply waiting for an opportunity to encourage, to reproach, or to empathize.

Severus' method of digression was similar to that of removing a band-aid; the quicker the eradication, the less time spent feeling the pain. His moment was passing him by and he knew it, his hesitation was only costing him time, and he could not afford to lose such a luxury.

"I cannot do it, Headmaster."

"And why is that?" Dumbledore's eyes were sparkling and eager, feeding on the information Severus was about to divulge.

Severus' face contorted for a moment, his words tangled in his throat. "I would refuse you nothing, but this girl ... I cannot do it."

"What is wrong with the girl?"

"Nothing!" Severus replied immediately, and then slowed, his calm exterior shuddering. "She is difficult to be sure; stubborn, rude, emotional, with a surly demeanour, but it is not who she is, but what she knows." Severus looked up at the ceiling, vivid images colouring his mind. "I could see into her mind; it was not a choice, her thoughts are utterly unprotected. She's seen war, that was clear, but in her recollections I could see myself, alongside a boy..."

Dumbledore's head bowed, his lips curving slightly upwards only in the occasional spark of the fire.

"Potter's boy. Lily's son," Severus said quietly, his back now turned to Dumbledore, stiff and straight. "I know it. There was no mistaking him. He had every look of arrogance as his father. And his eyes..."

"He has his mother's eyes," Dumbledore whispered warmly.

Severus turned, struggling to remain composed. "Headmaster, surely you concede. She cannot continue as my ward. She is his friend, it was apparent. I cannot have her..." Severus trailed off again, silently damning himself for such cowardice.

There was a long moment before Dumbledore replied. His hands were clasped neatly on his desk, and his eyes were surveying Severus; he knew the man too well to overlook his bewilderment. Dumbledore bowed his head as he spoke. "On the contrary, Severus. I disagree."

The fire crackled loudly from the center of the room. Severus turned his head toward it, his pale face illuminated by orange and red light. His eyes closed against the warmth, and the shadows danced along the contours of his face.

"The weekend is coming to a close. The dungeons are the only place we can ensure her safety. Even there, she is at risk. You, Severus," Dumbledore said as surveyed the man through his spectacles, "are her only chance. You are the only choice."

Severus did not open his eyes. "What do you want me to do with her?" he murmured, almost inaudibly.

"She is clever, do not forget. Let her help you. Madam Pomfrey has been asking for Dreamless Sleep for over a fortnight."

With a placid nod, Severus opened his eyes and left, quickly making his way down the spiral staircase and through the empty hallways. It was late; if any students were roaming the halls, they were breaking curfew.

The staircases creaked to life as he swiftly made his way through the labyrinth of the school. His mind flashed to an image of the girl, brown eyes firm on him, emotion filtering through only the most miniscule of cracks in the young woman's stiff composure.

His robes were the only sound as he reached the dungeons, the static of fabric rubbing together crackling as he moved. He clasped his aching forearm, feeling the dull heat even through his robes. He was not being called; it was not piercing enough for that. It was all in his mind, but even as he recognized it, the pain worsened. He stifled a groan as he turned towards the wall, muttering his incantation and allowing himself entrance. Turning swiftly to the right, he entered his rooms and carefully secured the door. He did not fear she would try to disturb him; but old habits died hard. After last night, he had not seen a single glimpse of her, albeit not without his best effort to avoid it.

Sleep did not come immediately. Barren of blankets and with a single, flat pillow, Severus lay upon his bed, his eyes searching the dark ceiling. It was hours before he relaxed, and he fell asleep knowing he would have to wake soon.

_The window was open. It was late June, but winter wind had lingered. Red locks pushed against her fair complexion, but she did not brush them aside. Her eyes were furtive, determined. She had been still for a long time, and did not move until she saw what she was searching for. Her face transformed, and she reached up with a thin, freckled hand and pushed back her hair before racing to the door. _

_"Severus," she exclaimed, opening the door to reveal him hunched, with a fist in the air, about to knock. "Come in."_

_He eyed the threshold, before carefully looking at her. "I don't think I should."_

_She stepped forward, closing the distance between them. "Please."_

_He nodded, and she led him in, her fingers delicately placed over her swollen belly. "Take a seat," she offered, gesturing towards the sofa and armchair._

_"Lily, I shouldn't be here."_

_"I know," she murmured, biting her lip. "I know, I know." She glanced up at him, her green eyes large and swimming with tears. "But please don't leave. I didn't know who to talk to, and I knew...I knew you'd come."_

_The young man stiffened. _

_"I'm sorry," she whispered, her hands trailing down her stomach, shaking as they did. "I'm sorry. I just need you to be here. Sev, I know I can talk to you. You understand. You always have. Even though..." She trailed off, her breath coming out in a huff. "Even if I can't trust you, I know I can talk to you."_

_"Of course you can't trust me," he said with trepidation, his face shades paler than it had been before. "Your logic is flawed, Lily."_

_"You're my best friend, Severus," she cried, tears finally spilling. "I never dreamed you to be anything but. I always thought I could depend on you. Do you know how hard it is... how hard it was to tell myself I couldn't anymore?"_

_"Are you asking for my empathy?" he snapped. He tore away from her, his back arched, his arm lifted and sleeve displaced to reveal the beginning of a gleaming black tattoo. "I've seen more than you can dare to imagine, and you weave me tales of _your _hardship?" He turned back to her. She was still, with her hands on her stomach, and tears pooling in the crevice of her lips. "We haven't been friends since we were fifteen," he muttered at last, his eyes watching her carefully. _

_"I never stopped loving you," she whispered. "Maybe I couldn't forgive you, but I still loved you."_

_"What of Potter, then? Does he make a fine replacement?"_

_"The pair of you are no substitute for the other," she replied with an even tone, wringing her hands furiously. _

_His face was blank, but his eyes swarmed the room, ridden with anxiety. _

_ She walked slowly over to the sofa, gingerly sitting down, her expression fraught with concern and her cheeks still wet with tears. "Sev, I can't do this."_

_He was silent._

_"I can't have this baby. I can't bring him into this world. I can't raise him. I –" She paused, racking her hands through her thick hair. "I should have never gotten married."_

_She stood up suddenly, her eyes latched determinedly on Severus. She walked slowly toward him, a hand outstretched. With trepidation, he let her take his and press it gently on her stomach. He let his eyes rise to meet hers. _

_"Can you feel him?"_

_After a moment, Severus nodded, slowly._

_Her eyes filled with tears once more. "He's going to be beautiful, I know it. But...Sev, I'm not going to be able to raise him right. Or love him enough. I'm tossing him into this world – he doesn't have a say in it – and I won't be able to love him enough to spare him pain. He won't have a childhood. He won't have anything... and it will be because I won't be able to give it to him. I don't have enough love to stop him being hurt. It's impossible."_

_"Lily..." He could not tear his eyes away. Her tears gleamed in the light as they fell. "You were born to love. Everything you've met you have coddled and protected until it couldn't stand you anymore." She laughed half-heartedly through the stream of tears. "War cannot break you, and it cannot break your love for your child. Whoever his father. You loved me, when you shouldn't have. In a lifetime, I could never treat you with an ounce of the respect you gave me every second." His face contorted as he spoke, as if difficult to get the words out._

_She blinked, staring up at him as though in a momentary daze. "How could I not love you?" she whispered. "I could never replace you. I never have." She reached up to touch his cheek and he grasped her fingers. She shifted her gaze and lifted her head to kiss his cheek. He turned, and met her lips with his, gently. _

_A careful sigh stiffened the air. She broke away, her eyes searching his, sympathetically, desperately._

_"This may be the last time we ever see each other," he spoke quietly. His eyes trembled with a foreign vulnerability. "I have a feeling."_

_This time, as he met her lips, she did not pull away, but moved in, her mouth encouraging. Her hand began to rise to graze his cheek, but just as she neared, it was he that broke away, the swish of his robes and back of his dark head the only compensation for her watery eyes. _

Hermione woke with a shock, her face pressed against her own soft pillow, and a pool of salty tears staining the linen around her.

She fumbled for the goblet by her bedside. "_Aguamenti_," she mumbled, quickly gulping down the water. Her mouth remained dry after drinking, but she set the goblet aside, huddling into a corner of the bed, her head pounding.

Lily had been beautiful, her neat red hair and green eyes that held a sparkle... that Harry's didn't. The way she looked at Snape, with such pain, but such admiration. It was desperate, but Hermione did not pity her. It was too passionate; too intimate... she could scarcely understand it. And Snape... he was so gentle, so tender. He looked so much younger, even mere years before.

Her heart beat so rapidly she dared not move. She had unwittingly interrupted something so private. Such a vision did not did not clear up her understanding of Snape... only confuse her all the more. A flash of Snape, gentle and loving, entered her consciousness, and she shook her head. The man was an enigma; for most of her childhood she had been trying to decipher the very same mystery and had always turned up empty handed, data contradictory and scarce.

Her head fall back against the headboard and she sighed. All she had was what she knew, or more succinctly, what the future held; Snape hailed as a hero, his death a sacrifice... Her own distilled acceptance when she learned the news of his true allegiances. She always wondered why she hadn't been more shocked. She still wondered. Hermione had never given much thought to Severus Snape, but now that he had been brought so forcibly to her attention...

Perhaps she should.


	8. Chapter 8

8

_You've been living a while in the front of my skull, making orders. You've been writing me rules, shrinking maps and redrawing borders._

_- The Antlers_, Atrophy

* * *

Hermione snorted to herself and she retreated from her book, rubbing her nose fiercely and trying not to take too seriously the fact that she had had her face so buried in a book she hit her nose. It should probably be surprising that it hadn't happened before.

However, this book was one she found particularly enthralling. In the chaotic arrangement of reading materials left to entertain her in her quarters, she managed to find a volume about the connotations of dreaming someone else's memory. There had been no way that dream was mere speculation of her subconscious. The chapter she indulged in was titled Memory Dreams, and she was enthralled. It spoke of entering another's memory during a time in which both parties are in deep REM sleep. It spoke nothing of distance, so Hermione assumed it was not the close sleeping arrangement that inflicted such an event, which she had guessed at, but instead what the boo presumed.

_Memory Dreams have been recorded by individuals linked by similar trauma or misfortune. Though usually remembered by both parties, it is possible for only one member of the connection to have the dream._

Hermione chewed absently on the tip of her fingernail, her own nails bit down to the bed. She sincerely hoped she had been the only one to dream; it had been obvious to her it was not a normal dream, even in spite of foreign event occurring within it. She had no doubt Snape would come to the same conclusion, had he experienced it as well.

She read on, ignoring the prickle in her mind that had arose at the words _"similar trauma_".

..._memory dreams are likely to be recurring, and are never exclusive to one party. If dreams persist, both individuals tend to experience the other's experiences._

Hermione hurriedly flipped through the pages until she found "_Defenses_".

_Unfortunately, Occlumency cannot be employed against Memory Dreams. A Memory Dream is not usually an evasive experience, but instead a mutual sharing of an event that both parties can empathize with. Memory Dream's can be repelled by a person who believes themselves to be in danger due to the experience, as the mind itself will not allow entrance if it believes itself to be in danger. However, this is mostly discouraged as to convince the mind of something it had not subconsciously already identified is a straining and tumultuous task, and in the end, the mind may not agree and overrule any conscious judgement. Most people tend to find the dreams therapeutic and..._

Hermione slammed the book shut. She could try and tell herself that Snape was dangerous, exhaust herself and leave herself utterly defenceless in a vulnerable time, and have her subconscious mind veto her decision anyway! It was absolutely useless; if her mind believed _Snape_ to be similarly traumatized, she doubted there was any logic she could employ against it.

Her fingers traced a small circle in the cool mahogany desk, and she slowly separated them wider and wider until the circle's circumference went past the edge of the surface. There was some luxury in being here; her ears did not ring from endless crowds, each demanding to see the Boy Who Lived, just to glimpse a single glance of their saviour. The air was fresher here; something she had forgotten about Hogwarts. It did not reek of London smog or of her overcrowded, under cleaned flat shared with the messiest boy she knew other than Ron. But the silence is what she really valued; even in her school years, there had always been noise. It had only risen to a crescendo in years since.

She wondered what Harry and Ron were doing; or _if _they were doing anything. The vortex of time she was trapped in did not necessarily dictate whether time was continuing in her present, as her return could land her anywhere from seconds after her departure to days. _Years_, maybe. That is, _if _she returned. Even in the magical world, a wrinkle in time was not a documented occurrence.

She paused a moment in ponderings – testing herself – her body still in anticipation, waiting for the reaction that never came. Hermione felt no pang of longing, fear, or desperation as she faced the cool possibility she may never return home. In truth, she supposed, it no longer really felt like home. Within the borders of Hogwarts, even in the damp stone encompassment of the dungeons, she felt strangely at ease; more so than she had in months.

There was a quiet rumbling to her right and she jumped to her feet, her eyes darting to the old clock on her desk, which told her it was nearing five in the morning. Much too early for her to have been up for over an hour, but not especially surprising, given the circumstances and her track record over the last few months.

She could hear muffled footsteps, and she hurriedly flit into her slippers and went towards the door, pausing for only a brief moment of composure before opening it.

Snape was huddled over a stack of parchments, neatly arranged and packaged, with a familiar red scrawled _D _across the one on top. Immediately noting her presence, he swiftly grabbed them and turned to her, the darkness of the only partly lit room concealing any expression.

"_Incendio,_" Hermione whispered, her wand pointed at a nearby candle, which lit in a fury. The small room illuminated, and Hermione faced her warden.

"I have work to attend to," he began sharply before she could say a word.

"I don't mean to bother you," she said reassuringly, so much so he rose in eyebrow in suspicion or curiosity – she couldn't tell which. "On the contrary, in fact. I am aware of the danger of my situation just as much as you are. Furthermore, I realize the great inconvenience it is to; more so than you probably realize. I wish to only present an alternative. In the interest of keeping my identity secret, I thought it would be best to suggest an individual already aware of my presence. Madam Pomfrey must have seen –"

"Madam Pomfrey saw nothing."

"I was in the Hospital Wing. It's impossible to have someone stay there without –"

"You were charmed," he replied swiftly, with a deep frown setting in on his features. Hermione blinked, taking in his words inordinately slowly. "Insolent girl. Do you really think we could let you gallivant the castle, no matter the hour, with your face as it was? There are too many untrustworthy eyes."

"I hardly gallivanted, I was unconscious!" Hermione snapped in reply, lifting a hand to her cheek. "I am still – charmed –?"

"It was removed when you entered my quarters." His face remained in a stiff, utterly unhappy expression. "You are entirely yourself."

She noted the bite to those words. In this world, she wasn't even friends with Harry and he _still _hated her.

"Surely, there must be some other possibility," she continued. "I don't want to inconvenience you."

"Why the change of heart, I do wonder?" he shot back at her. "Two nights ago not only did you not seem to care a bit about any inconvenience of mine, but went to such lengths as to insult my house and call me a murderer?"

Hermione blanched. "You _told_ me you would have killed me!"

"Only after you yourself suggested it, Miss Granger. I do not know what you know about me, but I will not let the opportunity pass to gather any information I can about your circumstance." His eyes flashed, his voice low and quiet.

Her heart sped up, but it was not panic rising from her stomach; it was challenge, a threat, and the anticipation to meet it. "And if you think I will simply stand by and let you, like some _insolent girl_, you are terribly mistaken. My mind is not a game for you to toy with."

For the first time, he rose to his full height. Hermione was not sure if this was an act of intimidation or otherwise, but she met his steady gaze unwaveringly.

"You are not afraid of me," he said flatly, as though reading a particularly mundane headline from the morning paper. Hermione felt deflated as all the sparks of energy in the room smouldered into ash.

For a moment, the room felt small. The lack of windows seemed entrapping, and the flickering light of the candle left her with little hope. She stared at his long, white fingers, his nails that had been neatly trimmed, and the blue vein that strained from wrist to forefinger. Her eyes flickered back up to his, and she saw a glimpse of something familiar.

"I don't think I'm afraid of anything anymore," she responded.

He held her gaze for another moment, his expression entirely unreadable, just as she remembered from years before. It was as if she had not even spoken, nothing registered in his features. But his eyes refused to let her go; they were not holding her, but she found herself clinging to them. They seemed endless, teasing her, as though there was something beyond the emptiness.

He turned away. "My rooms are entirely off-limits. I have warded them to protect against any idle curiosity. The common room is yours to peruse, as is your own quarters. I have left nothing accessible for you to spoil. You may not leave this room. This door –" he pointed to it lazily, as though necessarily to ensure against her obvious stupidity, "will not open if you happen to ... _forget._ House elves will leave you food and other necessities. I will not wait on you. I am your warden, not your nanny."

She snarled, "Of course I didn't –"

"I have important things to attend to. Goodbye." He turned curtly and left the room without given her as much as a sidelong glance. _Absolutely impossible!_

Hermione paused in the sudden silence. He had the same venom as the Snape she knew, but somehow, she felt as though something was missing. He was bitter, surely. He treated her as an idiot, but perhaps ... perhaps he did not consider her a child. Here, she was older, and he younger. He did not belittle her as he had done when she was in school. She did not have the inexperienced required for complete condensation.

Her mind buzzed her she turned her back to the door. All that was happening now would influence the future; the one in which she had already lived. The way the Professor Snape treated her, was likely due to circumstances that would be created here. Perhaps, even a bulk of his dislike for her friends came from these experiences. Her heart sped up once more. It was too much to comprehend. Too much to consider.

She glanced around the space, decorated in green and silver. There was one thing she knew for sure. She needed to get out of the dungeons.


End file.
